


Answered By You

by thehobblefootalchemist



Category: Henry Stickmin Series (Video Games)
Genre: And is only conscious of the former, And who better to send with him than his Right Hand?, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Guilt, Henry perceives this and lets him loose executing heists, M/M, Mentions of compulsive behavior, Mutual Pining, Neurodivergent Reginald, Post-Toppat King Ending | TK (Henry Stickmin), Reginald is an anxious wreck held together by the duct tape of Something To Do, Reginald is both touch averse and touch starved, Self-Esteem Issues, Toppat King Ending | TK (Henry Stickmin), Violence warning used mostly for descriptions of past injury, brain said what if TK but neither had ever confessed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27952619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobblefootalchemist/pseuds/thehobblefootalchemist
Summary: Even when Reginald had been on top of the world he felt as if there was one missing facet to the gem of his life.  Little does he know that the thing he thought would always be out of his reach already belongs to him--has been his and only his for quite some time.In which a former Toppat Chief comes to the realization that the feelings he's been keeping to himself for years may not be unrequited after all, and subsequently experiences hope and panic in equal measure.
Relationships: Reginald Copperbottom & Right Hand Man, Reginald Copperbottom/Right Hand Man
Comments: 31
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved these jerks for seven years and after CtM's numerous blessings--such as Right's Stand power coming from a famous love song (a lyric from which I pulled the title of this fic)--I simply can't hold myself back.

Space was peaceful. This was problematic, as Reginald Copperbottom did not have a very good relationship with peace.

Oh, that their masterwork had been completed successfully had him elated, no question! To cross something off of a list was one of the best feelings in the world, and this particular ticked box had put the Toppats literally out of said world. But a triumphant plan was just that--over with and done. And for a mind like Reginald's, one that was always going, always whirring, always looking to whip up the next big endeavor, having anything approaching to 'quiet time' made him _itch_.

Waking up to a summons from Henry had been just the thing he needed. Mornings had been...odd, lately. It had been bearable during the first week or two, where everyone aboard had been scurrying about making sure the station was operating to standard. But now that the majority of the metaphorical--and occasionally literal--fires had been put out, something about the way the time-set fluorescent lighting would slowly illuminate each new calendar day to simulate sunrise was getting under his skin. Going to see the Chief would be an excellent way to escape the vague electrical droning permeating his bedroom.

But first, to dress. Even beyond Earth's atmosphere Reginald wouldn't be caught dead in anything less than his standard, which was to the nines. For the Clan's sake and his personal reputation both it was paramount to present respectably. In addition to this, space was _cold_ \--only so much power could be allocated to heating the cavernous hallways so once out of the so-called 'residential area' the multiple layers of his shirt, vest, and coat were practically a survival necessity. He didn't know _how_ some of the other Clan members got by with just button-downs.

By the time Reginald exited his room he still had a little while before seeing the Chief, so he took it on himself to head down a few levels to the station cafeteria. He was always on a more even keel throughout the day if he'd had a spot of breakfast, and after all, what had they spent all that money for on gourmet if they weren't going to enjoy it?

When he eventually left the dining hall Reginald felt a presence manifest just behind him. He did not need to glance back to know who it was--none of his hackles had raised, and only one person could enter his personal bubble without setting off alarm bells--but he did anyway just to be able to send the shadow of a smile Right's way. The man was like the moon, that way: he couldn't always see him, but Reginald could nevertheless rest easy knowing he was in his orbit.

Enjoyable as it was to walk with him, as they went along Reginald felt compelled to let him know his destination. "I'm on my way to the Orion Lounge. The Chief wants to see me."

Right's sound of acknowledgment was a gruff sort of hum. "Same here. Got the same message."

That gave Reginald such pause that it manifested physically; his pace not quite _faltering_ but slowing just enough so that he was soon walking side by side and in step with the other man. Toppats of all rank parted to let them move unhindered through the halls but Reginald barely noticed. Henry wanted to see them both?

It was no secret that the new Chief and the former second-in-command still held some distaste for one another. Reginald had seen it in the way that his deputy's fists had clenched when Henry and Ellie had appeared in the control room of the launch pad. Right might _respect_ Henry--because Reginald did, and because of the young man's skills in a fight--but _like_ him overmuch he did not, as tended to happen following instances of mutual attempted murder.

Abruptly the impending meeting was now almost more of a worry than a relief.

"You're bitin' your lip."

Right's murmur had been carefully neutral, but when Reginald looked at him sidelong he could see the concern in the subtle furrow of the man's brow. It made his insides twist as much as it warmed him. "Just a passing thought," he muttered back, and fixed his eyes forward again.

When they arrived at the lounge Henry and Ellie were both present. The Chief was on the ceiling, occupied with testing a new set of what the Research Division was calling Gecko Gloves, whilst his Right Hand Lady observed with an upturned stare and idle commentary that she wasn't deploying any safety measures this time if Henry fell again while making goofy gestures.

"Yes, sir, please don't," Reginald called by way of announcing themselves. "Our physicians _can_ set bones, but I'm sure they'd rather not have to."

To Reginald's wincing Henry ignored all caution in order to yank a hand free and wave cheerily at him and Right. He didn't fall, however, and employed a nimble maneuver that saw him drop down with his feet planted safely onto the table at which Ellie sat. From there he stretched his shoulders and then plopped into the seat next to her, and gestured for the pair to join them.

Henry was one to wear his heart on his sleeve when it came to expressions. The fact that he appeared in a good mood and was equally welcoming the both of them coaxed Reginald into more of a relaxed state as he followed the invitation and settled in a chair opposite the Chief. Right moved in tandem with him and chose the seat on Reginald's left side.

"So, Reginald." Due to their leader's mostly nonverbal nature it was Ellie who got the ball rolling. "I know I still don't know you all that well yet, but Henry says you've been acting twitchy."

Well _that_ wasn't the type of opener he'd been anticipating. "Pardon?" was the best Reginald could manage, and he mostly succeeded in keeping his vague sense of offense out of the request for clarification.

"Well, that's my word," Ellie said, "and not his, but y'know. _On edge_." She waved a hand a trifle manically for emphasis. Henry then tapped her shoulder, and she watched him sign something before turning her eyes back to Reginald. "Yeah, like you're bored."

Reginald blinked. The only thing that outweighed his bewilderment that the pair had been paying him that much attention was his surprise that their regard held not admonishment, but something that looked like _care_ \--like they were wondering what they could do to help.

How was this a conversation that he was really having? _And,_ something was vehemently shouting in the back of his head, _why had they felt the need to ask Right along?_

"...well," Reginald said after a light cough, "it's true enough that the orbital station has given us a sense of security that the Clan as a whole has never really enjoyed before. It's only natural there would be an adaption period after being on a hair trigger for so many years. Plus--" here he met Henry's eye, not seeing any point in letting it go unmentioned "--the list of things I'm responsible for overseeing has obviously shrunk."

The Chief nodded sagely, and gave him a rare vocal reply. "Caged tiger."

That didn't... _feel_ like an insult, he supposed? "That's not inaccurate," he acknowledged slowly.

"Hence us all gathering here!" Ellie clapped her hands together and then laid them on the table palms-down--her 'planning' stance. "This is us telling the both of you that you get to _go outside_."

Reginald and Right flicked a look at one another before turning their gazes back to the leaders. "Meaning--what, precisely?" Reginald asked.

"Just what I said. You both have our official license to plan up and then go off and pull whatever kind of heist you want. Henry and I won't bother you about resources, and nobody else'll try to question you or butt in on it. You've got Right Hand Man and however long you feel like you need." She sat back with a grin.

Reginald was floored. Going back to the planet for whatever venture he pleased, with his greatest ally alongside him? It sounded like exactly the kind of thing he'd been craving--and he could see Ellie _knew_ that by the way her grin was widening in response to whatever he was projecting with his expression. He worked to modify his features back towards the composure he usually strove for.

Henry gave him a small wave to get his attention. Reginald was becoming good at reading him, so he understood the man's following gestures--first a type of shooing motion, and then a tilt of his head on the heels of holding up his index finger--with their intended meaning: _You're free to go now, unless there's anything you want to say?_

"Been meaning to ask." They all looked at Right as he spoke for the first time. He was looking at Ellie. "Am I going to be getting a name change? Seeing as you're a Right Hand now."

She did not appear surprised by the question, and in fact had an answer at the ready. "We don't see any reason for that."

"I shouldn't think so," Reginald couldn't help but put in. An unaccountable spike of adrenaline had gone through him, and the dregs of it made his voice more petulant than he intended. He worked to soften it. "Even if you're not the Toppats' Right Hand, you're still _mine_."

The expression on Right's face was unidentifiable. He almost looked like he was going to say something, his mustache twitching nigh-imperceptibly, but the moment faded and he simply inclined his head and pulled the rim of his hat down over his brow.

Meanwhile the Chief and Ellie had exchanged a glance, and she said, "That's what we thought."

Henry was smiling at him in a way that was a tad too _knowing_ for Reginald's taste, and heat crept beneath his collar. The sensation remained even long after they had been dismissed and he was thankful it was after he was alone in his living quarters that his flush waited to spread to his face.

It had been a long while since Reginald had been so outclassed as the most perceptive person in a room. He berated himself for slipping up to that degree; for almost tipping his hand in its entirety. He couldn't recall the last time he'd allowed himself to be so blatant with his attachment.

(This inability to remember was not a mere turn of phrase: as a defensive measure his mind had blocked out the other most recent instance, snippets of missing limbs, blood-spattered grating, and his own raw screaming coming to him only in dreams.)

His inhale was long and his exhale sharp. Sitting, that should be his next order of business. His work desk had everything he needed in order to come up with a caper.

...except the longer that Reginald spent in effort to get his gears turning, the more he found them jammed. There was a blockage in his headspace that was preventing him from kicking up the idea flow that he _knew_ was there, just far enough back that he couldn't unlock it, and for the life of him he couldn't pinpoint it.

He missed the airship. The thought struck him like ricochet during a duel, taking his breath away.

They had all but decommissioned the craft purposefully--shut everything down, removed the valuables, stripped it of anything incriminating--because once in space the Clan, after all, would theoretically have little need for it anymore. But Reginald was becoming aware now that he'd had a very personal need that would not and could not be fulfilled without it.

Flying had given him a freedom like almost nothing else. It was the comfort of a constant focus, something he needed to pay attention to at all times with both his mind and his hands, but one that was also routine enough that it left room for his imagination to thrive and scheme. Board room meetings were all well and good, as there was merit in committee discussion, but the eureka moments--the true bolts of inspiration--those had always found him whilst looking out at the sky.

And now he would likely never have that euphoria again. The manner in which they'd been forced to leave the planet's surface meant that a great deal of their personnel and tech had had to be left behind, the airship included. Galeforce was probably crowing over it all as spoils at that very moment, sending his plethora of agents in for confiscation and catalogue.

The thought of some Government nobody touching all over his beloved control panel made him want to break something.

The faint squeaking unique to protesting leather made Reginald aware he'd balled his gloved hands into fists. It took a great deal of mental energy to relax each of his fingers and by the end of it he had almost deflated in his chair, feeling as worn out as if he'd done a dozen laps around the station rather than, for all intents and purposes, just stared at a wall for...

Clocks never lied and Reginald hated it almost as much as he hated himself for not realizing an hour and a half had gone by. He hadn't fallen victim to such a lengthy stretch of lost time for years.

Reflexive self-loathing wouldn't solve anything, though, and Reginald was nothing if not a problem-solver. There had to be a reason he was agitated, now so much more-so than other days, when ostensibly he should be happy to be able to sequester himself and plan some type of robbery. If he could just identify the source of his disquiet he could start the process of overcoming it and then get back to what really mattered: a project just for himself and Right...

Reginald swallowed. Ah.

He flicked back through his memory since coming into his room again and it--it _did_ come back to that, didn't it? That for the forthcoming adventure he was going to be absolutely alone with his Right Hand Man for the first time in quite a while...

A building ache in his dominant thumb let Reginald know that he was moving it spasmodically against his index knuckle; he forced the digit still by holding it in his other hand. Spiral-prevention protocol was identify and overcome, he reminded himself, and it was time to get going on that second part.

He gave himself the mental version of a shake. The heist. The _actual heist_ , he could work with that. All he had to do was pick a target and then he could nail aspects of a plan of attack down no problem. If he just _applied himself_ it would be _nothing_ for him to come up with a vision and a few backup scenarios by the end of the day.

As for his partner in crime, well--Reginald was a master of improvisation. He could take any potential... _interpersonal_ variables as they came, he was certain of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for the warm reception this fic has gotten! I hope I can continue to impress, these boys have me by the throat and I'm having the best time being hurt by them as I go--I promise to deliver on the happy ending tag but they're sure making it take a bit to get there :'D

The explosion was smaller than Reginald had been hoping for, but he supposed that was only to be expected after he'd been interrupted while laying the charges. Its cacophonous display nevertheless gave him no small amount of satisfaction as it lit up the evening horizon in luminous ochre shades.

Unfortunately he could only watch so much of it from his position in the bed of their speeding truck; the fleet of Government vehicles that was rapidly tailing them were of much more immediate concern. _They_ did not appreciate Reginald's pyrotechnic handiwork in the slightest.

Some people just had no respect for _pizazz_.

Sighing with resignation that the billowing smoke and distant alarms would be his alone to enjoy--Right was driving, and therefore could not afford to look back--Reginald hoisted and aimed his firearm. These must be new recruits, to be so bold as to drift so close to a pair as notorious as they. A grin crawling across his features he fired off a round and was rewarded with the ever-delightful sound of a tire rupturing. The greenhorns' truck veered wildly as a result of the driver's panic and Reginald was taken with a fit of laughter as the chain reaction this set in motion ended in the damaged vehicle colliding with one of its allies with enough force to total them both.

He hadn't been suffused with such unfiltered _glee_ in a very long time. He rode that high throughout their entire getaway, hooting every time one of his meticulously placed rounds took out another car. It was no more than Galeforce's lackeys deserved. Thinking they could pursue him without consequence--bah! Disabling Government property was nothing when he could bury a bullet in a man's spine from fifty paces.

Gradually their assailants began to disengage. One by one the remaining trucks slowed, the distance between them and the Toppats' vehicle growing wider and wider, until they disappeared entirely from sight. Whether they'd been called back by Galeforce or had decided on their own that the accumulating collateral damage of the pursuit wasn't worth it Reginald did not know, but either way he considered it good riddance. As he climbed back into the passenger seat pride was thrumming through his veins like kerosene.

There was still lingering danger of being tracked, though, and Reginald knew it very well. While Right kept them barreling on their course towards the safehouse he kept a weather eye out for any further land-coming or airborne reinforcements that might get it into their heads to try and pick them off. Only when they passed onto the forest trail that would eventually take them to their hideaway did he feel like they were out of the woods--a smidgen of semantic irony that had brought a smile to his face during his planning earlier in the week and called a similar one to his features again now.

A hundred or so yards down the dirt pathway Right slowed the truck. In wordless coordination he and Reginald switched positions, Reginald taking the driver's side and Right moving into the back. When he heard the cue of one of Right's augmentations scraping into place Reginald took the vehicle out of cruise and hit the acceleration to get them going again--now with the surety that they would leave no tire marks behind them, thanks to Right's ability to smooth them out.

It was well that he only had two things left to do--keep his foot on the pedal and take a left turn in about nine miles--because Reginald was practically bouncing in his seat. Exuberance was always something that burst out of him in a very physical way and he'd had too stellar a day for him to keep any of it in. Good _god_ this plan had gone well.

He'd had a high degree of confidence in the whole thing--so much so that he'd gone straight to Right's room following his all-nighter drafting things up and hammered on his door, too excited about showing off the details to remember just then how jittery he was at the notion of so much forthcoming time alone together. _Oh_ had he remembered it about halfway through his presentation--when in the midst of his jabbering he'd glanced up to find Right looking not at the document Reginald was pointing at but straight at _him_ , one of those inscrutable flickers passing across his expression, and his own face had nearly caught on fire from a strange self-consciousness as abrupt as it was molten--but his still-crackling enthusiasm had given him enough traction to keep going with the information dump without too much stumbling, and long enough for his cheeks' temperature to regulate again.

The job took them back to the Dogobogo Jungle. Henry had said expressly that he could go wherever he wanted and steal whatever he wanted, but the more he had thought it over the more Reginald had come to the conclusion that for a personal project he wasn't so much in the mood for thievery--prompted by an inferno he had unwittingly lit within himself, he instead had prepared machinations to retrieve a few items that were _already his to begin with_.

When Reginald had rounded off his outline he'd impulsively asked the other man what he thought of it. Right's reply had been as immediate as it was plain: "I'll follow you wherever you go."

Even though he was aware that Right had, essentially, simply affirmed that he would continue to follow his job description as a Right Hand, Reginald nonetheless found himself repeating those words in his head in the following nights before he would fall asleep. In a truly stupendous paradox he found so much solace in them that it was embarrassing.

The 'rescue mission', as he privately referred to it, took about a week's worth of researching and information-gathering to make airtight, and had played out almost without a hitch. About the only thing that had gone what could be considered 'wrong' was that Reginald hadn't gotten to destroy as much of the Government's facility as he'd anticipated. But, in the grand scheme of things, having been spotted by a newbie who had gotten lost was a minor snag. Of chiefest importance was that Right had had the time to do what _he_ had needed, and they'd left with the two things they had come for.

By and by they came to the end of the road. Their safehouse was waiting for them, a Toppat scouts' station that was a remnant from the Clan's time setting up the rocket initiative. Enough twilight had persisted in filtering down through the jungle canopy that Reginald had never had to engage the headlights, and that in combination with the makeshift garage they were able to pull into did wonders for his sense of security. He'd like to see Galeforce try to find them via satellite imaging _now_.

Right went straight inside the main building as soon as he'd slid the shutter down behind them, but Reginald lingered in the garage. In all the hubbub of their escape he hadn't gotten to truly appreciate yet that he'd gotten his things back; he wanted a few minutes alone with them to let it really sink in. It wasn't in the cards that he could touch them just yet--both items would require a thorough cleaning first--but having the airship's control panel and his pilot's chair within arm's reach once again was profoundly soothing.

He didn't care that only one person on Earth--and indeed only that same one person when they were back _off_ of Earth--would understand the _why_ of him choosing to make these two things his marks. He would know, and Right would know, and that was enough, anyone else's potential looks of puzzlement be damned.

And in any case, regardless of what they were bringing back with them, the fact that they were returning in itself should be a point of inspiration to the Clan--proof that with proper planning and the orbital station to always go back to they really could get away with anything they wanted. His chest puffed out. Not a one of them would be able to argue that he wasn't pulling his weight as a member of the Toppats, even no longer in his position of leader.

Reginald's steps were practically skips by the time he joined Right in the shack proper. Not even the fact that it was on the dingier side and had only two rooms--one large main room and a small bathroom--could wipe the grin off of his face. They'd only be here a few hours at most before they could rendezvous with the shuttle that Henry would be having sent down.

It was too risky to utilize a generator, so Right had opted to make use of a few oil lamps while Reginald had still been out in the garage. He was in the midst of hanging one from the ceiling when Reginald came inside but paused in the task to look over at him, and in the dim but warm glow of the small flame the crow's feet at the corner of his organic eye crinkled in the way that meant that he was smiling. "You're happy."

"Extremely," Reginald confirmed, the rush of the emotion coming through in every syllable.

Right's mustache twitched upwards before curiosity became his dominant expression. "What happened with the charges? Didn't get the chance to ask in the ruckus, but I noticed they went off early." He finished hanging the light and stepped down to ground level again.

"Oh, some dolt that got turned around." Reginald waved a hand. "At first they asked me which way the briefing room was, can you believe it? When what my hat meant got through their skull they managed to get on their walkie and blow my stealth, but I returned the favor by blowing it out of their hand with my pistol."

"Didn't get hurt, did ya?"

That question, from him, made Reginald's pulse stumble. This was one of the variables he'd been afraid of, back when Henry had first let on that he and Right would be working together alone. They'd never--they'd never _talked_ about it, the fact that Right had all but died for him, and any time Right expressed his ongoing and apparently unbroken concern for Reginald's well-being it distressed as much as relieved him.

"No," he affirmed, by some miracle managing to keep his tone even.

"Mm. Good." Right's posture loosened; became his usual on-guard state rather than one of readiness to go back the way they'd come and seek retribution.

How had he ever secured enough luck to have been able to appoint such a wonderful Right Hand Man? One so steadfast and loyal to the Toppat Clan that he could set aside the resentment he had to be feeling every day, and continue his work looking out for their leader even after being blown a step away from hell on his behalf?

And continue to look after him even now. Even now, when Reginald was no longer Chief, and had in fact given over that title--twice--to the very individual responsible for Right's mauling.

Henry. If Reginald was being honest, there was a time when he had wanted to kill him. And not just in the context of a self-defense measure from back when the young man had first been infiltrating the airship. In his most caustically bitter nights--the ones directly following the day he'd ceded the craft, the ones he did not like to remember, before Right's surgeries and recovery had been a certainty--he had dreamed of all manner of ways he could enact revenge in blood so cold it would put glaciers to shame. Could achieve some manner of reprisal for the ways that Henry had hurt him, hurt his pride, and hurt his best ( _only,_ something deep in him whispered) friend. There were days even now where Reginald would look at him and still feel the phantom sensation of his necklace being used on him as a garrote.

He'd meant what he said at the rocket's bay doors, as he'd held Henry's hand while the man dangled a hair's breadth from death. He could have let him fall.

But he'd also meant what he said after. Henry had put himself on the line for the Clan, and the Clan had come away victorious for it. The civil war Reginald would have risked by satisfying his own pettiness wasn't worth it. He'd made the decision to be like Right: to box away any lingering vestiges of his grudge for the good of all Toppats, so that the Clan could pride themselves on a leader unafraid to put himself in peril to secure their future.

_Unlike you,_ the voice from his night terrors hissed. _You who ran, who forced your Right Hand Man to lay down his life for you and left him to bleed out alone, and then got yourself captured barely a room away. COWARD._

He became aware that Right was watching him. Not moving, nor speaking; just searching Reginald's face with that quiet concern. Reginald knew then that he had lost time again, had remained wordless and motionless for who knew how long with who knew what showing on his face. He couldn't bear to keep the eye contact--had to look away, towards the darkness outside the only window. "...anyhow," he mumbled. "I still feel very good about how today has gone." It was only in the action of lowering his hand that he realized he'd also been tugging on his mustache, for how many minutes he did not know. 

"M'glad."

His deputy's voice was soft in a way that Reginald liked to imagine, in moments where he was susceptible to wishful thinking, that only he ever got to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter are why I started writing this fic...
> 
> Mind the tags especially this time around, friends, and I hope you enjoy <3

The curtains being open was bothering him.

Reginald moved around the table, heading over to draw the fabric snugly over the glass. The chances anyone would see the illumination of their lamps were slim, but being slim himself and more than familiar with how lethal _he_ could be, he wasn't in the mood for any risk.

"Our pickup will be in an hour or two," he said, mostly as a means of filling the silence.

Behind him Right hummed, and Reginald categorically did not deserve how accommodating he was being. They were both of course already versed in the schedule inside and out--had gone over it multiple times, fine-tuned it together after discovering that the Clan's fledgling teleportation technology was on the fritz and they would have to rely on a comparatively old-fashioned mode of transport.

"It will almost be strange, going back to space," he continued, musing on something more substantial. "I know that it's home now, but there are aspects of never touching down anywhere that I'm finding it difficult to get used to." He sighed. "Getting to stretch my legs today...I can't deny how nice it was."

"Mm."

It was monosyllabic, but there was still a note to Right's answering noise that prompted Reginald to look around. "Is something the matter?"

Right blinked, his version of absolute startlement. "...not so much the matter," he replied. "Y'just reminded me of something I'm gonna have to take care of, is all." One of his hands raised and rubbed the back of his neck. "With talkin' legs. I was having a bit of trouble with mine, earlier. Was almost a problem while we were driving."

He was looking at the floor by the end of his explanation, and was several shades gruffer, and it was Reginald's turn to blink when he experienced the dawning realization that his Right Hand Man was embarrassed. He wanted to ask him whatever _for_ , but as the subject of his cybernetics was one they had almost never touched, Reginald found himself in a rare state of tongue tied.

"What can be done for that?" he asked eventually.

"It's not that involved. The docs have me set up with a kit I can use when I can tell things are gonna start getting dicey--mostly just comes down to keeping the joints greased. The transitions to some of the augmentations aren't...well, without the proper upkeep, they're not as smooth as they look."

Right was removing said kit from his coat pocket as he spoke, and it made sense for him to be focused on that, but Reginald still got the impression that Right was avoiding his eye. He couldn't understand why--not until it hit him all at once in an earth-shattering moment of, _oh_.

The reason his Right Hand's shoulders had hunched, the reason why he was abruptly so cagey, must be something similar to the reason why he himself almost never took off his gloves.

"Can I help?"

Reginald hardly recognized his own voice. It had come out of him with a meekness he had never displayed to anyone, not even in his earliest days on the lowest rung of the Toppat ladder. He wouldn't take the offer back, though, not for anything in the world.

Right was looking at him now. His eyes were wider than Reginald had ever seen them, locked squarely on his face in something like wonder. "If...if you want."

He did want. He could not undo Right's dismemberment, nor understand every facet of what he had gone through after it, but Reginald hoped that he could at least tacitly assure him that he would not be judged for vulnerability and scars.

That he was going to be working with oils was the perfect pretext. While Right sat down and rolled up the legs of his slacks, Reginald shrugged out of his suit jacket and hung it along the back of another chair. His gloves followed after, laid neatly on top.

It was infrequent nowadays, but in the past Reginald had often been asked about his tendency to constantly wear gloves. Gifted as he was with charisma it had been easy for him to quirk his brow and wave off the inquiries with return questions of his own: _Is there any other accessory you would expect from a suit this expensive?_ and _We're thieves, what better way not to leave fingerprints?_

The truth of the matter, however, was that he doubted he had any fingerprints left to leave even if he didn't wear them. He'd painstakingly taught himself better coping over the years but in his youth, before he'd understood himself as well, his breakdowns had tended to manifest far more insidious compulsions. The nail-biting hadn't been so bad, at first. But much like the proverbial frog who did not understand that the water around it was beginning to boil, by his early twenties Reginald had developed a picking habit so severe that even now, more than a decade on, his extremities bore lasting and visible disfigurement.

It was with these hands, physical testament and admittance to his lifetime of struggle, that he reached for the oil and dropper.

All it took was one glance for Reginald to know that every level of the choice he had just made had been understood. After that he couldn't look at Right's face at all. If he exposed himself too much longer to that kind of comprehension and gratitude he thought he might just fall to pieces.

He did not try to bury that fragility, though, or make any attempt to modify his own expression. That would have defeated the point. He wasn't Reginald the leader anymore, surrounded by responsibility and having daily to wear an array of masks. Tonight he had no responsibility other than the one to the man in front of him. To be just two people for a little while, being fragile together.

"Tell me what to do."

Right did. As he'd alluded before the process was straightforward: there were points in the joints and joinings of the technology, particularly near his knees, that required continued greasing in order to maintain their proper function. Reginald's task amounted to hunkering down and dripping the oils in wherever the other man pointed out, and then waiting while Right performed a series of stretches to ensure the liquid reached all of the places it needed to go. Occasionally the motions were accompanied by grumbles that were equal parts discomfort and relief.

After an indeterminate amount of time they finished up with his first leg. Before starting in again Reginald unthinkingly swept at an itch that had been bothering him in the background so that he could continue with unmuddled focus. Right did not repeat his instructions, and so the air between them filled with a silence other than Reginald's tinkering as he tended to the second limb, until it too was done and he sat back on his heels.

"Reg?"

The sound of his name was the thing that finally pulled his gaze upwards, just in time to meet Right's eyes and be struck by lightning as the warm, calloused pad of the other man's thumb brushed his cheek.

Reginald couldn't look away. It might have just been a trick of the light, but...

"Smudged some oil, there." Was Right raspier than usual? "When you touched your face."

Right's hand seemed to linger, before it fell. Reginald chalked that up to illusion, a side effect of his mind needing to catch up and process.

"I'll, ah." Reginald's mouth had gone dry, his own voice hoarse. He had to start again. "I'll go and see to that."

There was a tremor in him when he stood up that he did a passable job of hiding. He managed to keep his posture straight and his gait even as he headed to the station's only other room and shut its door behind him.

He spent a good thirty seconds afterwards just trying to breathe.

When he'd gotten a hold of himself long enough to look around he found out the bathroom didn't have a mirror. Of course it didn't. By providence he kept a miniature one on his person, however, and he fished it out of its pocket. He may as well follow through on his stated reason for leaving the main room.

With shaking fingers he managed to undo the clasp and look into the tiny reflective square. A man who had just realized that he was not merely attached to someone, but in love with him, stared back.

Reginald gently placed the mirror down, gripped the ramshackle counter's edges with both hands, and shut his eyes tight.

All he could think about was the glow that Right's own eye had seemed to hold. But it wasn't right that he should get so caught up in that--he shouldn't allow himself to get swept away in such a fleeting detail, he couldn't give in to wild hope. Not when he knew he was an expert at seeing only what he wanted to.

Eventually he registered that in the other room, Right was speaking. Curiosity and a pinprick of foreboding broke through his sense of distraction and he cracked open the door to peek out.

"I'm asking you what the bloody hell you _mean_ ," Right was saying again. He'd been glaring at the tabletop but when Reginald reappeared he locked eyes with him on reflex and Reginald saw the 'ongoing call' icon in the pupil of his cybernetics. Tapping a finger to a specific spot on the side of his head he put his built-in comms in a speaker mode so that they could both hear.

"As I said, it's fairly simple." Sven Svensson's voice, sounding miffed with having to repeat himself, filled the room. "When we ran the perfunctory scans in preparation to send the shuttle down to you, we encountered interference we've never seen before. We can only assume it's the Government using some kind of experimental tech."

Reginald's glare now matched Right's. "So we're stuck here."

"...not precisely." Sven was more sullen now, cowed by the steel in his former leader's tone. "It appears that whatever Galeforce is using can only cover so much surface area at a time, so they are utilizing it in a pattern. We estimate that retrieval will be possible in approximately nine hours."

Reginald was using eighty percent of his cognitive capacity in effort not to grind his teeth and the other twenty holding himself back from lashing out any further. He wanted to shoot _something_ , but in this case the messenger wasn't appropriate. "Thank you, Sven," he responded, succeeding in coming across flatly instead of outright curt, and then whipped a hand across his throat.

Right took his signal to disconnect the call, and silence fell.

Nine hours. Nine _hours_. What the hell was he supposed to do with _that_?

"I'm going to sleep," he announced. It was the only thing he could latch onto. That the cot in the corner was atrocious compared to his usual standards didn't matter, that he had no pajamas or means of brushing his teeth didn't matter. He hadn't eaten in half a day and his head was too loud and he needed somewhere to hide and making a leap for unconsciousness was the most immediate means available to him of choking back the hurricane.

Mechanically Reginald crossed the room and climbed onto the resting spot, rolling over close to the wall in a fetal position. It was a mark of how thoroughly he was coming apart at the seams that he left his shoes on.

He noticed after a while that Right hadn't said a word--hadn't, actually, even moved. Even though he was attempting not to think whatsoever (a doomed effort, he knew from historical precedent, but he couldn't help giving it a shot) and couldn't currently see him, Reginald's mind put forth a label to the other man's current air: _contemplative_.

He also had the distinct impression that he was being watched. The stare somehow did not worsen his internal whirlwind, however, so Reginald let it pass without comment.

Eventually Right did start to move about the safehouse. As Reginald kept his eyes on the wall the light quality in the room began to change: dimming each time Right visited one of the lamps and used a breath to blow it out, until at last there was only one.

Footsteps, approaching. At first he thought Right was merely bringing the remaining lamp to set on the side table, but Reginald's heart nearly leapt into his throat when afterwards he felt the weight distribution on the mattress change. He half-looked back to find that his Right Hand Man had sat alongside him on its edge, not only with his back against the wall but with his legs swung up onto the cot. "What are you doing?" he managed to whisper.

"Just keepin' myself where I belong," was Right's quiet reply. "Between you an' anything that might try to come in."

There was that hope again, blooming warm and insistent in his chest no matter how hard he tried to keep it small. Reginald made himself small instead, curling up even further and mumbling into the pillow. "Suit yourself."

In the new near-darkness he did not so much slip into sleep as crash. The lack of consciousness didn't bring him the solace for which he'd been hoping, though; in fact brought him _to_ somewhere. More specifically, some _when_.

That day, on the airship.

Shame coursed through him like a fever as the dream-memory filled itself in. The presence of Henry amorphously just behind, the bewildered and in some cases accusing gazes of the other Toppats who had been in the hangar. The bruising forming at his neck in aftermath of the grip from which he'd just been released.

Worse than the shame, though, was the dread that lay around his shoulders as he gazed at the path he had walked in other dreams before, and understood that he would be compelled to walk once again while his clanmates looked on in prophetic pity. The route he'd taken while running away--the route he'd retraced when he'd gone back to find his defeated Right Hand Man.

He knew what happened next--saw it occur from outside his own body, this time. His perspective now a floor above and nearby Right's unmoving form, Reginald's present listened to his past self climbing up the ladder. Watched him hoist himself onto the platform, bore witness to all trace of color draining from his face. He felt in tandem with him the cascade of shock that had rooted his feet to the floor; knew all over again the terror that shredded something in his chest; heard almost before it happened the howl that had torn his throat apart on its way out, a sound he had never made before and that could only ever have one descriptor.

Anguish.

Past-Reginald ran to them, a stumbling, desperate sprint that ended in him collapsed onto his hands and knees. The Reginald who was dreaming closed his eyes, tried not to listen to the hitched breathing that turned into screams-- _"I need a medic, somebody get up here, where are the fucking medics?!"_ \--or to the strangled pleading that eventually followed, that culminated in single, broken attempt at denial: "No..."

When he opened his eyes he was alone once more with Right. He knew how events had truly gone--help had arrived, had provided what tourniquets were available and had done what they could for the bleeding on their way down to the hospital bay, and Reginald with still-bloody gloves had pelted pell-mell back to the bridge to get the ship off of autopilot and on a course to a specialist's surgery. This was one of the more lucid reprisals of trauma he'd experienced, however, and for what luxury that was worth it meant that he didn't have to relive everything to exact detail. He had some choice, here. And so he chose to sit quietly with the dying man.

Because Right would be a corpse, soon. That was something he'd found out from the doctor after, something that he never acknowledged while he was awake. That there was a point in their lives where his Right Hand Man's heart had stopped beating.

Even being aware that out in reality he was at that moment alive, and was as repaired as Vinschpinsilstien could get him, Reginald still felt sick. Right had only lived because he'd gotten them to the little boat in time--painting the airship's controls red as he gripped them with singleminded purpose, the fact that he'd just abdicated ownership of them be damned--but something in him withered at the thought that he hadn't been there when the man had fallen truly still.

Beside him Right inhaled a shuddering breath, and Reginald looked down without flinching into his mangled face. Because it was a dream he felt safe enough to reach out and trace his knuckles along the uninjured side of his jaw; finally felt brave enough to indulge an ache that had been building for long years and lay with him, his cheek against his chest and clutching with the gentlest pressure onto his shirt.

At some point he realized he'd started crying. He wasn't aware when it began, or for how long the tears had been sliding down his cheeks--maybe even from the very beginning. The emotional release felt too relieving to try and stop, though, too cathartic, and so for once he simply let himself free-fall.

Time passed. Reginald never quite ran dry, but he reached a point where the wracking sobs at least subsided into exhausted sniffling. That was when the voice came to him--distant, faint, but undeniably a hush of comfort: "Shh... M'still here."

_Right...?_

The other man had never spoken to him in one of these dreams before. He even swore he felt his right arm wrap around his waist in a loose embrace, but how could that be? That was the one that had been blown off...

The pulse beneath his ear was strong and steady, too, and that didn't make any sense either. In every one of his previous retreads Right was already out of Reginald's reach, already gone. His imagination was being suspiciously kind.

Now that he was paying attention, Reginald noticed that the light quality behind his closed eyelids appeared to have shifted from the fluorescence of the airship to something much dimmer, and much more warm. His own heartbeat fluttering like a bird's he cracked open one eye for the barest peek.

In later retrospection he was extremely proud of himself for not leaping out of his skin the moment he comprehended that he was no longer dreaming--that he was back in reality, in the safehouse, and that at some point in his slumber he had rolled over and _actually clung onto Right_.

In the moment Reginald was entirely immobile. He'd never experienced a tension like this; like the slightest twitch would shatter him. Every inch of him was hyper-aware of the sensation of how close they were. It was the first time he'd ever been so close to someone period, let alone in a context like their current circumstances.

Where Reginald was rigid in a brittle way, his Right Hand's presence exuded only his usual state of steadfast readiness to protect. It was such a repose, in fact, that Reginald could only conclude that at some point before he'd nestled up to him Right had also fallen asleep. That had to be the timeline of events, as he could not envision a scenario in which the other man would be so calm about...this.

Though it had at first caused him panic, the situation over time became his anchor. Right's breathing was even. His pulse was strong. Reginald merely had to listen to hear all of his senses singing with signals that his partner, the best guardian he could have ever asked for, was here with him, here _for_ him, was alive, alive, alive.

Very, very eventually, his body relaxed against the other man's.

It almost felt dishonest to choose to remain close to him while Right didn't have a conscious say in it, but for once Reginald couldn't bring himself to care about what eyebrows anyone might hypothetically raise. That he was a selfish creature was something he'd always known about himself, after all.

And he'd given up so much else, recently. At that thought Reginald shook and curled the tiniest bit closer, held on just a little more tightly. He could let himself have this for a little while...couldn't he...?

"Hey, now...'nother nightmare already?"

Right was not asleep. Right _was not asleep_ , and was murmuring to him, the thumb of his prosthetic hand brushing gentle circles along one of his vertebrae.

"That head o' yours takes you so many bad places..." In all their years together the man had never sounded so pensive, so melancholy. "I wish I could do more from out here."

_But you do so much,_ the deepest reaches of his heart wailed. _You're my rock, you're my everything, there are so many times that I would have been lost if not for you. Don't you know?_

Reginald almost spoke these things aloud, almost did away with his pretense of sleep then and there, but before he could something happened that brought the entire world to a halt: the fingers of Right's organic hand passed across Reginald's face, sweeping his bangs from his forehead and stroking through his hair.

He couldn't breathe. There was a rock in his throat and even closed his eyes began to burn. He had never been touched like this before--had never thought he'd ever _want_ to be. He shocked himself with how desperate his instinct was to lean into it; to bury himself against the other man, to let himself be swallowed whole.

But then again, was it really so surprising? This was Right, _his_ Right. If anyone was going to be an oasis in the desert he hadn't been aware he'd been wandering, would it not be him?

The voice from somewhere in his soul affirmed it: _Only him._

Throughout this internal overwhelm Right had never halted his soothing motions. The hand Reginald had watched kill scores of men had fallen into a rhythm, moving over his head again and again in something there was no other word for but a caress. A whimper built inside of him that he couldn't hold back and beneath his cheek Reginald felt the other man's heartbeat stutter. The sound had given him away, and Right knew now that he was awake.

Knew that he was awake, _and was giving no indication that he was going to move away or that he wished Reginald to do so_.

Right's hand passed through his hair one more time; slow, deliberate, coming to rest at the back of his neck. Like a question.

He could barely get the air into his lungs, but Reginald's halting, shuddering intake of breath sparked a flame of commitment. He had to see. He had to _know_.

Reginald finally gathered the courage to move his head, and in Right's face he found the same kind of look he'd seen on himself in the mirror just hours before: something wrecked, something gutted.

Something longing.

Even Reginald's often deafening anxiety--which had so recently convinced him he was reading too much into things--could find nothing to say to that.

With the new angle of his head their faces were very close. In what felt like slow motion he shifted, his lips parting to answer what his Right Hand's trembling fingers had silently asked--

_Krrrzt._

"Hey, R and R?" A voice so bored it could only belong to Burt Curtis crackled through Right's comms. "Boss, uh, wanted me to let you know that we've got an early opening to come down and grab you, so the shuttle's on its way. It'll be there in a minute and a half, and you'll have about that much time after it lands to get back in the air."

After the transmission cut there was an eternal second where Reginald and Right continued to simply look at one another; the shattered remains of their still and private world feeling for just a little longer like it was still within reach. Distant but approaching engine feedback, however, sent the two scrambling. _Damn everything,_ Reginald seethed as he wrenched his gloves and coat back on and made a beeline for the garage, _damn everything to hell and back, of fucking course the call would come through_ now _._

He was glad at least that Right had gone ahead of him. The fact that he'd needed to wipe his eyes on his way out didn't need any witnesses.


End file.
